


The Offering

by TheStraggletag



Category: Hamish MacBeth (TV), Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Anyelle, Bellish - Freeform, F/M, Folklore, Mantis Menagerie Fic Exchange, Mantis Menagerie Fic Exchange 2017, May Day Menagerie, Rumbelle May Day 2017, Scottish lore, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 06:07:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12858390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStraggletag/pseuds/TheStraggletag
Summary: Lochdubh is the quintessential Scottish town, which often meant nosy townspeople, a few rowdy locals and more fires than a constable could put off in a day. But it had never meant being incapacitated, stripped down and left in the forest to appease some non-existent spirit.Yet.





	The Offering

**Author's Note:**

  * For [applejackcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/applejackcat/gifts).



It started with a few sheep, and later three pigs and a cow. Dead as doornails for no reason, at least none the vet could find. No signs of an animal attack, or traces of poisoning, though the animals had been burned after a thorough examination just in case. Since all the animals were from different farms and none of the farmers could find motive to believe it being intentional Hamish suspected some local was up to no good involving chemicals and the animals had died of poisoning of some sort. It was unusual for some prank or crazy scheme to have such drastic consequences but he wouldn't be too shocked either if he sooner or later found one or both McCrae's behind the whole thing.

After the animals came the rain. Though Lochdubh was no stranger to the weather phenomenon- it always seemed to either be raining or about to- no one had seen it fall in such magnitude. By the end of March, it had rained in three months the same amount as the whole of the year before, and the resulting floods had caused all manner of losses and damages. Hamish himself counted at least three leaks in the living room and two in his own bedroom, one conveniently located right above his pillow. It didn't help the situation that wee Jock was determined to jump onto every mud puddle they came across. He was considering letting all the grime and muck crust over so the little mutt would be forced to shuffle around like that.

But the physical damages were nothing compared to what the rain did to people. For some reason, he could not quite figure out every resident seemed to think raining was some sort of crime and therefore fell under his jurisdiction. It became commonplace to be stopped on the street or harassed at the pub regarding something water-related. Soon enough it was almost impossible for him to get any peace and quiet anywhere outside his house except for the library, and it was mainly because the residents of Lochdubh were convinced it was haunted. For one it was located near the woods, almost outside the town limit, and that alone was enough to scare most locals away. Like most places in Scotland the forest ripe with lore and local tall tales of nature spirits and sacred trees, guardian goddesses both unimaginably kind and terrifyingly cruel.

It didn't help either that the library had once been part of a monastery and was likely the oldest building in the village, its sad, grey stone walls covered in ivy. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like a prime haunting location, the kind spirits would fight over to inhabit. The interior was a bit disappointing, with a utilitarian use of the space, old library furniture and a modest collection of books. Not even the librarians were spooky. Mrs Aldridge, who had retired a few months ago, looked like everyone's favourite grandmother, down to the annoying habit of pinching everyone's cheeks without reason or warning (Hamish wasn't too proud to admit to having more than once crossed the street to avoid the lovable old bat). The new Librarian was even less impressive, a little mousy slip of a person, short and nondescript, most of her face hidden by big, old-fashioned glasses that made her look like an overgrown owl. Her choice of nondescript brown/beige clothing and the muddy shade of her lanky hair didn't help either.

Strangely enough even though Lochdubh was not the kind of town to get new residents all too often no one had made much of a fuss about little Miss Caill. She had moved in with very little fanfare and almost no attention whatsoever, as if people barely registered at all. Hamish himself could attest to the fact that he hadn't noticed her about the village at all, which seemed odd. Lochdubh was almost painfully small, after all. But somehow he'd managed to only have a very vague idea of her presence in town until one night, when the heavy rains had just begun, when he'd chanced upon her on the side of the road, making her way from the library to the pub, most likely. He'd almost passed her, small and insignificant as she seemed.

He'd offered her a lift, smarting a bit at seeing the shocked look on her face. He was a respectable constable, it rankled a bit that she would think a small gesture of gallantry surprising. She'd barely said a peep during the short ride, though he'd sensed her looking at him, as if trying to figure him out.

Curiously after that first incident he'd noticed her more around town, as if she'd been invisible before and now was allowing him to catch glimpses of her. He'd tip his hat at her, giving her a charming little smile and after a while she'd smile in reply, delightfully shy in a way that put a spring on his step. It was a pity no one else in town seemed to notice her much, Belle was truly one of a kind. Kind, for one, the sort of compassion that shone through the eyes, blue and warm, and unbelievable curious. She said nothing whenever he'd take refuge in the library to escape the nagging of the town, and seemed to find his passion for detective novels endearing.

After a while he got used to her rather unique appearance, finding her more charming that ugly. The overly-large clothing only accentuated how wee she was and the glasses looked rather adorable on her, highlighting her rather impressible blue eyes. The more he thought about it the more he decided it'd be wise to keep an eye on the little librarian. Soon enough others would notice her proper and come sniffing at her skirts, which could easily turn into a spot of trouble. She looked so... innocent in many ways. As if the world was new to her. Since she didn't go into town much, and feeling like he imposed on her far too much, he had taken to taking little treats with him when he visited, which they would eat in a corner of the deserted Ancient History section as if they were naughty little school children sneaking food into the library under the nose of some matronly librarian. Often during those times something about the way Belle behaved, especially when he'd thought to bring ice-cream, seemed off, almost as if she was tasting things for the first time.

Other times, however, there was something very old about her. Not in appearance, since every time he saw her she seemed to get younger rather than older, but in spirit. An old soul, TV John would say, old and powerful. He had a strange sort of reverence for the Librarian, treated her with a level of respect that seemed almost too much. Still, TV John was amongst the last sane people in Lochdubh, specially once the rumour got around that there were no animals in the forest. No one had seen a rabbit or a fox for days and some, the most outrageous ones, claimed there were no birds either.

It was then that Lachlan McCrae Jr got roaring drunk at the pub, climbed atop a table and confessed to anyone who could understand his drunken ramblings that he'd accidentally crashed his motorcycle against the old druid stone ruins in the forest. They weren't much, certainly nothing to help attract tourism. Just a small stone altar, crudely made and covered in moss and ivy. And now, according to Lachie, a pile of rubbish, as was his precious bike. It was that discovery that turned the covert, whispered conversations about the supernatural into open, heated debates, with most people convinced something magical was afoot but disagreed on the who or what. Some people ranted about druid practices, about deities and the like. Others spoke of fairies and nymphs, and those older of forest spirits, one of which inhabited the woods. The breaking of the altar, once a gift of the town to this... being, had caused it to curse the village in retribution and there would be no peace in Lochdubh till things were made right again.

 

Hamish hadn't taken the town talk seriously once it turned towards the magical. He'd ignored it at first, thought it unimportant. But it didn't really surprise him much to find fireman Peter walking home in the early morning stark naked but for a small towel he clutched tightly across his hips, weird symbols painted with some sort of ashy substance on his skin. The poor sod, shaking from head to toe with cold, stuttered some excuse about it all being Lachie's idea- like Hamish needed to be told that- and scurried away. He wisely decided not to give chase, not very eager to arrest him for public indecency or have him half-naked inside his newly-washed patrol car. TV John later told him that he'd heard some boys at the pub some time before talking about old rituals, Celtic stuff they'd gotten from the internet about May Kings, virile men offered to appease forest deities. Since the smashed stone structure had broken the pact the original people of Lochdubh had made with the deity they thought another offering, of pleasing flesh, would do the trick. Hamish rather thought it a horrible idea, not even because magic didn't fucking exist, but rather because Peter wasn't exactly fighting women off with a stick. Thank God magic wasn't real or otherwise they'd be getting hail from an overly-pissed spirit rather than simply rain.

Just in case, however, he went over to the library to check things out, skimming through books of Celtic lore while he talked to Belle about old movies. She talked about films like she'd just discovered them at all and was enthusiastic about anything with Bette Davies on. He ended up renting Now Voyager just so he could talk to her about it and had to hide it from TV John, lest he imply something that wasn't. Just because he found the librarian pretty, something beautiful hidden in layers of ill-fitting clothing and comical glasses, didn't mean he was looking for something to happen between them. So he thought about her often, of course he would. He spent more and more time in the library, it was natural for her to become an important part of his life. And sure, he sometimes fantasised about her, wondering what her blue eyes would look like half-lidded and liquid, what her mouth and hair would feel like. But that just meant he was a healthy adult man with the accompanying urges.

He was sure Belle didn't see him that way anyway. She was lonely and was grateful for a friend and it was better to leave it at that. Women and him didn't mix well, at least not in the romantic sense. And there was something so... other, about her. Like she was somehow just out of his reach, like she belonged elsewhere. She was a fascinating friend, nothing more. Someone that made life a little bit more interesting, that cut through the dullness of his routine and made him look forward to things.

It didn't seem worth thinking about it at all, especially since he was too busy dealing with the rain and the town and the general madness that had taken over everyone. Too busy to think about much else or to pay attention to more mundane things. Too busy to be suspicious when Lachlan Sr left a bottle of fine Scotch on the station's doorstep, a gift for "May Day". And certainly too busy to notice the strange aftertaste of it. A few minutes later he was asleep to notice much of anything else.

 

"Kidnapping a police officer is serious business, Lachie, are you even sure it's gonna work?"

"Look, a police constable has got to be a good enough offering. Seems to have taken a liking to Macbeth in any case, it's worth a shot."

The voices faded away a bit after that and for a moment there was bliss in the silence. Though it was difficult to string thoughts together Hamish tried hard to piece what had happened to him. He raised his sluggish hands to his face, sensing something pressing against it. It felt hard, a mask of some sort, covering half of his face, with horns protruding from it. Everything else felt disturbingly bare, though his skin itched around his hips. Patting the area, he found that he was wearing some sort of kilt, new and stiff, like the ones sold at the local tourist gift shop.

His head felt heavy and light at the same time and everything around him seemed to be moving, spinning in dizzying circles. Whatever they had given him had his blood boiling and his adrenaline pumping, as if preparing for a fight or some other form of exertion. Though the woods must have been freezing he felt hot all over, either from the drugs or the bonfires surrounding him. Dimly he thought of the very real possibility one of them could end up burning the whole forest down. He tried standing up but his legs wobbled and soon dropped him on his ass, and even the thick wool of the damn tourist-trap kilt didn't help soften the blow, though he barely felt it. The almost pungent smell of rosemary wasn't helping his efforts to clear his head. Rather it seemed to numb him even more, till he could barely feel the horned mask that at first had been so fucking cumbersome.

At some point, he lay back down, humming in delight at the cool softness of the moss beneath him. It wasn't that bad, really, just a spot of involuntary camping. In the morning TV John would come pick him up, hopefully bringing some of his clothes with him, and he'd proceed to meticulously and ruthlessly ruin everything the Lachies and their cronies loved. Perhaps he could convince Agnes and Barney never to serve them anything stronger than Earl Grey for a month. It'd be fun to rub their noses on a cold pint of Guinness.

"Constable?"

It was unsettling, for a brief moment, to hear a voice after so much silence. He startled, hoisting himself up and moving his head to one side and then the other, as if the stag mask didn't completely blind him to everything around him. He tensed, suddenly aware of his vulnerability. He wished above all for his uniform, not because he was half-naked in the woods but because it brought him confidence, it made him feel almost invincible, like he was nothing he couldn't do, no problem he couldn't solve.

"Who's there?"

He felt a soft, almost whispery touch down his arm and then someone was taking his hand, helping him up. He stumbled upright like a new-born colt, or a man more than in his cups.

"Shh, it's alright. It's only me."

The scent of wildflowers reached his nose, making him instantly relax.

"Belle."

His owlish little librarian had tracked him down, thank God. At last the one sane person in the crazy fucking town he called home sweet home was there to end the madness. He tightened his hold on her small, delicate hand. She was such a wee thing, small and dainty. And she smelt so good...

"Constable? Constable!"

"Call me Hamish."

He was feeling incredibly mellow, all of a sudden. Happy. Like he didn't have the weight of an entire deluded town on his shoulders. Like he was wobbling semi-starkers in the middle of the bleeding woods because he felt like it and not because he had been fucking kidnapped in the middle of the night. Like he couldn't find better use for his fingers than ghosting them along the supple flesh of the librarian's inner arms.

"You don't seem alright, Hamish. Do you need help?"

Did he? A minute ago it seemed like it but now he was feeling perfect. Belle always had that pacifying-yet-electrifying effect on him, calming him down while at the same time filling him with a strange sort of restlessness. A bit like he was itching all over, eagerness humming softly through him, low but ever-present. He traced a path from her hands to her shoulders, frowning when he didn't encounter a scrap of fabric on the way.

"Did the little pricks drag you here too? Did they fucking undress you? Because I'll fucking kill them, cut them in teeny-tiny pieces and feed them to wee Jock if they did, I swear to-"

Her hands cupped the lower half of his faced, bared by the mask, and she pressed her thumbs softly over his lips, cutting off his diatribe.

"I'm here for you. Do you want me here, Hamish?"

On the back of his mind his skillfully-honed police instincts were screaming at him, telling him in no uncertain terms that something was off. But it was hard to find in himself to care. Everything smelled so good and Belle felt so soft under his hands. She no longer shied from his touch, no longer seemed interested in keeping that last bit of distance that was always between them. There was nothing to do but to nod enthusiastically and sigh when her fingers delved into his cropped hair.

"And what do you want me to do?"

His rational side, sputtering and on its last legs, supplied a long list of things. They needed to get him some clothes, douse the fucking fire and go home. Find out what the hell those little cunts had given him. Make them pay. But above all go home, and sleep this whole night off. Instead he found himself leaning forward and, blindly, kissing her. Far from pushing him away and slapping him, the sensible response, she pulled him closer, her arms wrapping around his naked shoulders and a mouth-watering little sigh escaping her lips. She took control almost at once and he let her, more than happy to allow her to completely devour him. She was almost feral, rough and bruising and completely fucking perfect. He clung to her as tightly as he could, splaying his hands across her thinly-covered back and letting out the neediest little moans he'd ever heard.

At some point, in between the savage kissing and the undignified groping, he found himself back again on the mossy forest floor, with Belle sucking on the spot where his right shoulder met his neck. He was too far gone by that point, barely noticing when kissing turn to biting and the tips of her nails began to carve patterns into his chest and arms. The pain only added to the euphoria of the moment, turned the pleasure bittersweet and heightened it at the same time. His clever fingers dipped low to feel her upper thighs, as smooth as marble and as cold as ever. When he stumbled across the hem of what felt like a sundress or a nightgown he pulled it up impatiently, managing to wrestle it off her without much problem. He was quick to claim his reward, moving his hands to grasp her hips, dip into her waist, flutter across her tummy and finally cup her breasts, as perfect as he'd often found himself picturing them beneath layers of shapeless clothing.

Abruptly Belle released him altogether and scampered away, giggling as he protested loudly. Instead of ripping the mask off to give chase he chose to let his hearing guide him, the sport warming his already hot blood and making him grin maniacally. They laughed like little kids as he clumsily hunted around for her, his fingers grazing skin or a lock of hair before she was out of his reach again. It felt as if she was almost guiding him somewhere, like a siren weaving her spell on a hopeless sailor. And he couldn't find it in himself to care.

Finally, he managed to hook an arm around her waist and send her crashing into his chest. She felt warmer, strangely, as if she'd drunk some of the heat in his veins from his lips, as if she was absorbing it from his skin and into hers. When she captured his mouth again he gave himself to her willingly, eagerly, raking his blunt nails down her sides and grabbing her by the back of her thighs, all the encouragement she needed to wrap her legs around his torso. The added weight made him stumble forward till something- a tree most likely- broke their fall. Propping her up against it he found it easier to manoeuvre the tip of one of her breasts into his mouth. Her hiss of delight made his cock twitch in eager anticipation.

She was divine. Small and dainty but fierce and completely in control, taking from him what he was only too eager to give. Her hands did not tremble as they undid the buckles of his ridiculous kilt, nor when they grasped his erection, guiding it to the entrance of her sex.

"Do you offer yourself to me, Hamish?"

Fuck, she was talking. It took him a moment or two to try and make sense of what she'd said, at which point all he could do was nod enthusiastically, groaning in utter relief as she allowed his cock to sink into the heavenly warmth of her cunt. It felt as if a shock passed through him, something powerful and unsettling. But a moment later he was thrusting into her, his ears ringing with her mewls and delightful cries. Every one of his senses was full of her, his skin prickling all over with an awareness of her that was almost uncanny. The moment seemed to stretch for hours, as impossible as that was, and Hamish could've sworn dawn was breaking when he finally felt her flutter around his cock, bringing him finally to release.

A minute later, or several, he found himself somehow back on the clearing in the forest, the bonfires dimmed to nothing but burning coals and Belle wrapped snugly against him.

"You've pleased me well, my King. Now rest, darling, rest. It's all done now."

 

 

"Rough night, eh, Hamish?"

Constable Macbeth was greeted by an array of jeers and catcalls. He stoically pretended not to hear any of it, making a show of talking to TV John to make it clear he was not paying attention. Barney greeted him with a pint of beer and a slap of the back.

"It's on the house, lad. You took one for the team, it's the least we could do."

Never in all his years in service had Barney given him as much as a glass of water on the house. The gesture itself left him too speechless to reply. On the booth next to him TV John whistled, impressed.

"That's a first."

Hamish could scarcely take the first sip of his glass before someone else vigorously clapped his back, making the scratches there sting like hell. One by one it seemed every man in Lochdubh was dead-set on showing him some gesture of male camaraderie and, strangely, sympathy. They brought with them snacks, cigars and other small gifts.

"It must have not been easy, but you pushed on and came through." Lachlan Sr patted his shoulder forcefully, making him bite back a howl when his hand made contact with the bite mark there. "It's all over now, lad, you did good."

He shot him one last pitiful look before ambling back to his seat to high-five his son, who flashed Hamish a thumb's up when their eyes crossed.

"Fucking barmy. What do they think, that they can butter me up and I'll pretend they didn't kidnap and drug a police officer?"

"Well, the way they see it your impressive manhood appeased the cailleach and saved the town. Quite a feat, really."

"Don't tell me you believe those sods too. The rain had to stop, it just happened to coincide with the day after my unwilling nature walk. And with the rain over of course all the little critters start to reappear, there's nothing fucking supernatural about it. And what the hell is a cailleach?"

"A hag. Vengeful spirits that can take the form of old crones, or ugly women. So, you see, the way they see it you just made a great sacrifice for this town. It certainly calls for a bit of buttering up, some well-deserved pampering at the least."

"What?!"

"Well, it was Lachie Jr that figured it out and you know his reading comprehension only gets him so far. No sense in trying to explain the nuances of Celtic folklore to him or anyone else that listened to him, the complex nature of spirits and deities. I tried, believe me, but nobody wanted to listen. It's all most complicated than that, you know?"

The door of the pub swung open and though Hamish had his back to it he could immediately tell who had walked through it. He nodded distractedly at TV John, making a vague sound to signal he was engrossed in the conversation even as his eyes and most of his attention, focused on her.

"Well, hags are complicated figures in lore. Some say kind, guardian spirits and vengeful hags are but two sides of the same coin. There are tales of deities turned into hags to wander amongst mankind, ignored and ill-treated. A test of worthiness, sometimes said to be passed by men in possession of a kind heart and a noble spirit, who'll prove worthy. This later became a very common figure in medieval literature, that of the loathly lady, made famous by Chaucer in his tale..."

"Belle."

She was dressed very differently than usual, a royal blue short dress paired with sky-high heels and not a cardigan or a coat in sight, though she appeared not to feel the cold. Her glasses were gone too and her hair shone just like he remembered it doing under the light of the bonfires in the forest. Her eyes, however, looked the same as they'd always been. Bright blue and overly curious, as if the world and everything in it was new to her.

"Hamish."

Suddenly he felt like a sodding pre-teen with his first crush, completely clueless. Thankfully the librarian seemed not to suffer from the same problem, looping her arms loosely about his neck and planting her lips firmly on his, a gentle kiss with a playful hint of tongue, that, embarrassingly, turned the tips of his ears red. Around him everyone was suddenly deadly quiet, not even the sound of clinking glass to be heard. Briefly glancing around he noticed the wide-eyed stares of everyone in the pub, including a rather delighted Esme and Flora, the town's main source of gossip (and knitted scarves). The Lachies were both gaping at him, their mouths almost comically open. Beside them Reverend Snow crossed himself, which Hamish thought was a bit much.

"Miss Caill... there's something different about you. New haircut?"

The librarian smiled, and for a second there was something faintly dangerous about her, not altogether human. A moment later it was gone. The constable blinked and took a swig of his ale, cursing himself for letting the craziness of the town get to him for a second. Gnomes and fairies and Scottish deities, what a load of rubbish.

"So kind of you to notice, John. How's that book on the Opium Wars going for you? I thought it was a fascinating read."

Soon both the older Scotsman and Belle were engrossed in a discussion. Too tired still to contribute Hamish contented himself with letting Belle lean on him, his arm around her waist and her hands toying with his shorn hair. When her fingers grazed the bite-mark she'd made he shivered, feeling heat pull on his lower stomach.

May Day hadn't turned out so bad after all.


End file.
